


Secrets

by glacis



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-31
Updated: 2010-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-06 21:26:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the stories are true.  Especially the lies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secrets

_Secrets by Sue Castle.  Spoilers for The Wire, Life Support, Distant Voices, Our Man Bashir and Dr. Bashir I Presume.  _

//begin log entry//

All the stories are true.

Especially the lies.

My dear Garak.  My very dear Garak.  You say I don't know you.  I do.

I know you better than anyone I have ever met.

All my stories are true, as well.

Most especially, the lies.

Withdrawal is the hardest thing in the world for a patient to go through and survive.  Coming down from a high, a prolonged high that made life bearable and distorted your own central nervous system to work against you, was the bravest thing I've ever seen.  It wasn't courage that took me to the Arawath Colony, into Enabran Tain's home territory.  It was desperation.  I couldn't lose you.

You're the only person I've ever met who has more secrets than I do.

You wear a mask.  As do I.  You seek forgiveness.  I strive for obscurity. Neither of us can say why.  Both our lives depend on it.

I learned by the time I was seven years old that the only way to survive was to live a lie.  I have a gut feeling you started even earlier.  Perhaps that is what makes me wish we could know one another.

That, and the loneliness I see in your eyes.  You hide it very well.  But I see it every morning when I look in the mirror, and I know what it looks like.  You can't hide from someone who has made his life in the shadows.

The only place I can tell the truth is here.  Have to let it out somewhere, can't do it in the official logs.  God forbid.  No, only on a datachip, hidden in a batch of useless data files, to be destroyed in the event of my death, nothing but old inventories and class notes in here, that's all, not the meandering of a lonely mind.

You make me shiver when you touch me.  Do you know that?  Probably. Or you wouldn't touch me so often.

You held my hand, and looked at me, and asked my forgiveness.  I gave it, but I don't know what it was worth.  At least you slept.  You healed.  And that's what I'm supposed to do, isn't it?  Heal you?

I want you to touch me again.  I haven't been touched all that often. And it seldom made me shiver.

I'm looking forward to lunch tomorrow.  I scanned the book you gave me. You were right, it was much more interesting than never-ending sacrifice. Lots of bloodshed, and of course, the Cardassians won, and of course, the Klingons lost, and of course, there was honor on the losing side and treachery and duty and, oh yes, mustn't forget, _sacrifice on the winning side.  I wonder if I can make you believe, this time, that I stayed up late, reading.  So you don't find out I stayed up late, thinking of you, touching me.  And shivering.

//end log entry//

 

//begin log entry//

I may never look at a tailor's dressing room quite the same way again. Next time, I'm bringing my camera.  No, strike that.  Next time it will be here.  And the camera will already be in place.

Dinner was lovely.

Desert was better.

//begin visual recording//

Two bodies, seen through a doorway at a distance, laughing over something too low for the recording devices to pick up.  The image is crystal clear, as one man leans forward and drops a bite of food on the other's lips. Fingertips are caught along with the delicacy, and nibbled, to both men's evident satisfaction.  More talk, more laughter, until the plates are empty and the chairs have been moved to sit, side by side.

Fingers give way to mouths, one running his hands along the other's neck ridges, slowly pulling off the heavy, intricately patterned tunic, the other sliding his hands into the fastening of the first's uniform.  With some awkwardness, not as much as might be expected for a first time at this activity, the men strip one another.  The younger leads the older into the bedroom, bringing the pair completely into frame.

Mouths connect again as hands begin to rove, seeking, exploring, caressing. The recording device picks up individual sounds now, panting, pleading, inarticulate moans.  A dark, curly head wanders down a pale, heavily muscled torso, elegant hands spread over a broad chest, fingers massaging ridges as the head begins a steady rhythm at the older man's groin.  Then impatient hands grasp at the head, drawing it up, as the positions are reversed, and white-grey hands work honey brown skin.  Long legs are drawn up, separated, rubbed and petted.  A sleek black head disappears between tawny thighs, and exquisite agony is drawn on the younger man's face as he tosses his head against the pale blue of the linens.

Motion again, as the broad, scaled back moves upward, and the slender legs curl around the sturdy waist.  Ankles lock, hips begin to thrust, strong lean hands pull at broad shoulders, clutch along sensitive neck ridges. Heads dip, mouths sliding against and off one another as they come to rest sheltered against each  other's shoulders.  Rhythm falters, picks up, sweat sliding along the ridges, as fingers clench and release spasmodically. Muscles tense, there is a moment of perfect stillness, then the curly head moves, full lips opening to show a flash of white as teeth sink deep into a neck ridge.  A sound, a cross between a howl and a plea, nearly overloads the recording device, and the bodies explode into a frenzy of motion. Another sound, a nearly mute whimper, a name.  "Garak."  An answer. 

A prayer.

The broad back relaxes, the strong arms collapse, and the long dark limbs wrap around the grey scaled back and hips, drawing the weight closer.  One eye opens, stares over a pale shoulder.  A hand reaches out, shakily, toward a small panel beside the headboard.

The screen goes dark.

//end log entry//

 

//begin log entry//

I can hear Kira crying in the recovery room.  Not that Bareil is ever going to recover.  Despite my every effort, and my staunch defense against that horrible woman passing herself off as Kai, I wasn't able to save him.

I can't help but wonder, if I had been able to truly utilize all of my talents on the case, if I might have caused a different outcome.  I will never know, of course, because to expose myself, who I am, what I am, in such a manner, is something that I will never willingly do.

I have lived my life knowing that I am a freak.  No one else need ever know.  That is my secret to keep.  I simply hope that keeping it safe didn't mean I inadvertently sacrificed Bareil.

If only the thoughts could end as easily as the recording of them.  Staring at the screen, I see only the reflection of my own face.  Short, wavy dark hair, large brown eyes, prominent brow, full mouth, my Mother's nose, my Father's chin.  My neural surgeon's eyes.

One secret among many.

I sincerely hope Garak is not busy tonight.  I need to forget for awhile. Forget who I am.  Forget who I can never be.

If there really are Prophets, may they take Winn and damn her to hell for all eternity.  Some people get the chance to love.  There aren't enough of them.  To lose it like this ... Kira knows too much of pain and too little of happiness.  For all she's been through, she deserves better.  We all do.

I don't know how long I'll be able to keep up the dance.  Let him in, lie a little, listen to a few lies in return.  Let him hold me, hold him back. Ask him to touch me.  Shiver.  And forget.

//end log entry//

 

//begin log entry//

I've never felt so tired in my life.  There are so many voices in my head, and they all had their part in bringing me out of the coma.  Altovar thought he knew me.  But he didn't know my secret.  The surgeons knew their work.  Accelerating the development of the neural pathways must have somehow strengthened them as well, weaving the neural net to bear unusual loads, and aiding me in surviving the telepathic attack without sustaining irreparable damage.  There's at least one paper in that.  Too bad I won't ever be able to write it.

Interesting that my enemy should take the form of my lover.  Of course I don't trust him.  I can't.  Not with myself.  Not at the heart, not behind the curtain that holds the darkest secrets.  We're both exiles, in a way. He, cast out from his own kind, for a public betrayal sheathed in lies.  I, always outside even while surrounded by my own kind, for a private crime hidden in plain sight.

There's a reason I didn't become a world class tennis player.  That much hand-eye coordination would draw envy, and speculation, and scrutiny.  And of course any first year medical student knew the answer to the question that kept me from becoming valedictorian.  For over twenty years I've stayed one step away from the spotlight.

Shadows can't survive direct light.

He said I wouldn't have him any other way.

I wouldn't.  Because I can't.

I don't trust him.  He can't trust me.  His distrust is inbred and buttressed by years of training.  Mine is enhanced by need and fear.

He thinks there is hope for me yet.

I know better.

//end log entry//

 

//begin log entry//

Two years.

Ended tonight.

Half expected it to, really.  I let him get too close.  Let him see behind the screen, to the little man pulling the levers.  Showed him what he thought I had learned from him.  Gave him a glimpse of the secret hiding behind the shields.

I shot Garak today.

Oh, it was only a flesh wound.  God, what a ridiculous phrase.  'Only a flesh wound.'  Posturing garbage.

A bunch of Cardassian fundamentalists calling themselves the True Way or some such nonsense sabotaged the Orinoco.  Nearly killed the command staff. One of these days Sisko might actually consider following Federation guidelines about transferal of key station personnel.  If I hadn't been in the holodeck, and Rom hadn't been quite so handy with a wrench, and Garak hadn't been quite so well versed in the spy game ...

I was willing to let the world go to hell to save them.  Threw the switch myself.

It was only a game.

The look in his eyes when he saw the blood on his hand.  Felt the sting in his neck.  Death of innocence in such a small wound, in such old eyes.

I think I might very well have been in love with him.

Not that it matters now.  As I was patching him up in the infirmary, he complimented me on my aim.  On my calculated risk-taking.  On my ruthlessness, even if it was a game.  Of course, it wasn't.  Not then. 

Not when I warned him, and most assuredly not when I shot him.  Such a small projectile to have such a resounding impact.

He had considered himself my mentor.  Now he sees me as achieving some sort of equality with him.  Not complete, to be sure.  But enough.  Enough that he will expect more, and I can't give him any more without taking the risk of allowing the truth to show through the obfuscations.

Two years of touching.  Two years of shivering.  Two years of pretending secrets didn't exist.

He asked me to come to him tonight.

I can't.

He'll heal.  It's just a flesh wound, after all.

I don't think I can say the same of myself.

//end log entry//

 

//begin log entry//

Nearly three years.  A long time silent.  No more secrets.  No more logs. I'm spending all my time with O'Brien.  Talk about transference.  I saw Garak at Quark's today.  Lunch with Ziyal.  They're sleeping together.  I'd lay a wager on it.

My own fault, of course.  He only asked once.  Then he smiled at me, in that closed, knowing way, and went off to eat with Odo.

And sleep with Ziyal.

We smile when we pass in the corridor.  He doesn't touch me anymore.

Now the secret's out.  Father's in prison.  Mother's back on earth.  Someone else will be the model for the medical hologram.  I don't have to hide what I am any longer.

What I wouldn't give to have a secret to hide.  And someone to hide it from.

//begin visual recording playback.  endless loop//

The End

 


End file.
